Nature over Nurture
by Ol3and3r
Summary: She is proof nature overpowers nurture.  Dumbledore hid Bellatrix's daughter, but not even being raised by muggles could keep her from fulfilling her destiny. Rated M for future chapters.  What happens when Hermione Granger is really Arista Lestrange?
1. Interview with a witch

I do not own anything related to Harry Potter. All credit for all things HP belongs solely to JK Rowling. Arista is of my own creation, however. I hope you enjoy this story! I know there is a timeline issue due to Hermione/Arista being born while Bellatrix is in prison, but I really want to see where I can take this story—so please forgive my inaccuracy on the early timeline.

Chapter One

Sitting in a flat, staring out a window overlooking a dirty backstreet of London, a writer sits toying with a recorder. His mind drifts back to the events of that afternoon. He had been led into a sitting room by the house elf and informed that "the missus" would be with him shortly. Looking around the room, he was still marveled that he was even offered such an opportunity. He was about to interview one of the most influential parties in the last great wizarding war.

Opening both French doors wide, she had glided into the room. The doors closing softly behind her, clearly wandless magic. Her elegance and refinement remind him of Narcissa Black-Malfoy; both women carried themselves with such poise. Her beauty was unmatched—she had a fantasy-worthy hourglass figure, flawless fair skin, and flowing ebony locks. As she looked at him, he could not help but get lost in her emerald orbs. Rising to greet his host, he stifled a groan as he tried to discreetly readjust himself. She had extended her hand to him with a knowing smirk on her plump cherry red lips.

"Welcome to my home, sir. Thank you for accepting my invitation." Her clear soprano filled room. Still a bit unnerved by her presence, he had managed to mumble an acceptable thank you. She had laughed at his behavior, joking how she hoped he was able to write better than he spoke. Gesturing for him to sit down, she placed herself on a nearby chaise lounge and began to speak indicating he should begin recording.

The memory of her body laying there before him distracted him still. He could not help his body's reaction to the woman. She was dangerous, beautiful, and extremely powerful. Any man—and quite a few women—would react to her just as strongly. Looking down at the recorder once again, he pressed the play button, unintentionally shivering as her voice filled his apartment.

This will be a conversation of sorts… I have a gift for speaking, but lose some of my eloquence as I try to put everything down on paper. So, I will speak and you will write—and we, we will create something great. Make yourself comfortable; are you ready to begin?

This will be my personal account of how I became Arista Lestrange and why that changed everything.

I was always warned to be careful what I wish for. It seems now it would have been wise to heed that advice. It seems foolish to think that I believed I was in control; I was his every step of the way. Admittedly, I was the perfect puppet for him. Not only did I supposedly represent everything that he opposed, I was the most loved friend of his greatest enemy. Ironically enough, who I was would be defined by my birth—by the blood that ran through my veins. I was the product of one of the most esteemed matches of the wizarding world: Rodolphus Lestrange and the eldest Black sister.

It should have been obvious to everyone at Hogwarts that I was not a muggleborn. The best and brightest of my generation! While I was always thirsty for more book knowledge, I held a wealth of natural talent— every aspect of wizardry came easy to me. Wand movements were second nature; spells rolled off my tongue as if they were my native language. Even wandless magic was natural for me. I admit early in school I strove to do well and was the best, but truly never had to try to maintain that position. The only competition was the Slytherin Prince—and he was the epitome of pureblood selective breeding. Both the Black and Malfoy bloodlines—what could be better?

It surprises me still that I was even admitted into the school, Dumbledore had used so many memory modifications and glamours to hide my existence from the rest of the wizarding world; why take that risk? He was foolish to think I could be controlled by the likes of him. Naïve old man believed in nurture over nature…He could not have been more wrong. All his glamours fell at my first use of an Unforgivable. Interesting that such a curse would bring us full circle—I am taken from her, faced with one another neither realizes the connection, she tortures me, I plan to torture her, but simply using the curse breaks all the magic Dumbledore used to hide me.

Did you know our wands had dragon heartstring cores? From the same dragon, of course. Lucky, I suppose; it made it so effortless to use her wand. Just as sure as my wand responded to me in Olivander's, this wand called to me. I understand now that it recognized the Black blood in me. Sitting there staring out at the ocean grasping that unyielding walnut wand, I could not resist giving into the allure of her magic—of my family's magic.

It wasn't long after escaping Malfoy Manor that I managed to finally slip away from Harry. Alone outside at the Shell Cottage, I decided to take the risk. I could say that it was because of my mother's wand—the wand that not a day earlier had been used against me to cast the very spell I was secretly planning to practice. But it wasn't. The magic inside me was aching to get out. Harry had failed to cast the cruciatus curse once before, but I refused to go into another fight without being fully prepared. I had felt the effects of that curse and I fully intended on returning the favor to the woman who had so eagerly used it on me.

Closing my eyes, I pictured her wild hair and piercing black eyes; her shrill laugh rang in my ears as I fingered her wand. There was no hesitation when I saw a small crab wandering by. "CRUCIO!" My eyes widened with wonder as I saw the crab spasming before me. The power coursing through my veins was overwhelming. I had never felt more alive. It felt as if a huge weight had been lifted off me and for the first time in my life I was in touch with who it was I was meant to be. I cannot imagine what the series of events would have looked like to a bystander. I walked out on to that beach a bushy haired bookworm, but left it a transformed woman—physically, emotionally, and mentally.

The change was instantaneous. There were no swirls of shimmering light, no gusts of wind. There was no long drawn out magical showcase, one moment I was Hermione Jean Granger contemplating casting a spell and the next I was Arista Dominica Black-Lestrange torturing a small animal on the beach. Long smooth straight hair fell around my shoulders. Even without properly seeing it, I knew my hair now rivaled Narcissa Malfoy's—sleek, smooth, and full. The dark contrasted dramatically against my pale skin. Grazing my hands over my face, I could feel the structural differences—a stronger jawline, more defined cheekbones. Reaching into my ever present beaded bag, I pulled out a mirror. One deep breath later, I gazed into my own reflection—finding no resemblance to the girl I had been up to that point. Hermione's honey brown eyes had been replaced with heavy-lidded piercing, fierce eyes colored the legendary Lestrange emerald green— Gazing at my reflection, the resemblance to Narcissa, Draco, and Bellatrix was a bit shocking. My facial structure clearly identified me as a Black. There was no doubt about whom I was or where I had come from.

My reflections were interrupted as Harry made his way out of the cottage towards the ocean. Not recognizing me, he immediately drew the wand he carried and took a defensive stance. I immediately recognized the wand as Draco's. I knew there would be no chance Harry had the control or connection to that wand that I had to my mother's. I shook my head—"No, Harry, stop! You don't understand! It's me." The voice hung in the salty air not familiar, even to me.

Harry being the brash, careless child he always was launched on the offense, shooting a series of easily deflected spells in my direction—as always, he was refusing to listen to any reason. "Who are you? What have you done with Hermione?" he growled as he closed the distance between us. "Is everything okay?" an airy voice called from the cottage—Fluer, no doubt. Taking advantage of the distraction, I disarmed Harry with a simple expelliarmus. Accio-ing Draco's wand to me, I could not help but, relish the feeling of it in my hand. It responded well to me, not as well as my own or my mother's, but certainly better than I am sure it had for Harry.

Fear shown momentarily in Harry's eyes—so briefly that I almost missed seeing it all. He feared me. In that moment, I knew Harry would never see me the same anymore. I would never again be the trusted friend, girl of the Golden Trio, the Gryffindor Princess. He could not see me as I was before, but only saw me as an heir to the Lestrange and Black families—and that meant I was the enemy. Not knowing what else to do, I apparated away with a pop focused on the only location I could think of at that moment: Malfoy Manor.


	2. Back to Malfoy Manor

I do not own anything related to Harry Potter. All credit for all things HP belongs solely to JK Rowling. Arista is of my own creation, however. I hope you enjoy this story! I know there is a timeline issue due to Hermione/Arista being born while Bellatrix is in prison, but I really want to see where I can take this story—so please forgive my inaccuracy on the early timeline.

Chapter Two

Bellatrix had been sipping a glass of wine with her sister when I had cast my first cruciatus. Pain shot through her brain as the memories were restored. Dumbledore had known it would be easy to detect of such a great length of time had been obliviated and instead had hidden the memories within her replacing them with images of days spent in Azkaban. The glass slipped from her hand and went crashing to the floor as the realization of everything that had happened washed over her and she began to whisper my name. Perhaps it was her calling to me that caused me to apparate to Malfoy Manor… It seemed I had managed to destroy the elaborate cover up and Bellatrix Black knew she had a daughter…and I knew that I was her child.

Whether the wards recognized Draco's wand or my heritage, I was able to apparate directly to the property. When I had hurriedly left the beach, I had not given much thought to what I would do from that point forward. Fear overtook me as I realized I had brought myself to the very location where I had spent much of the prior day being tortured. The disapparation pop seemed to echo through the hall announcing my arrival; startled Narcissa looked up from where she was crouched over Bellatrix's crumpled form. The crazed woman lay in a puddle of red wine and glass shards repeating a name over and over "Arista." Just by hearing her voice saying it, I knew that was my name.

I stood frozen in the center of the room, wide-eyed and torn—I knew she was my mother and wanted to comfort her, but I also knew she was Bellatrix Black and knew of her cruelty. Her daughter or not, I did not particularly want to deal with the erratic woman before me. Rational thought took over and I tried to apparate out of that house of horrors, only to find myself unable to do so. It seemed the wards allowed me to enter, but I could not leave.

Narcissa seemed to recognize me immediately. Rising and pulling Bellatrix up with her, she nodded slightly in my direction, "You must be Bella's daughter; I'm your aunt, Narcissa Black Malfoy. Welcome to Malfoy Manor." Her response floored me. I had no expectations of how she might react, but I never imagined it would be like that. A house-elf had already appeared cleaning and repairing the area where Bellatrix had just lain. She still clung to her sister, reduced to a shell of herself, much like I would have imagined she had been immediately after escaping Azkaban. Responding to her sister's greeting, she turning her gaze towards me, her eyes widened in recognition—Bellatrix Black was face to face with her daughter.

It had been nearly twenty years since she had known of or seen her daughter. Dumbledore had placed her in solitary confinement far from Azkaban during her pregnancy. With her incarceration, it had not been difficult to hide the child's existence. Despite all of Dumbledore's efforts and her Lord's disappearance, she never lost faith in the Dark Lord and chose to honor both Him and the child's pureblood standing in naming her child: Arista meaning "excellence" and Dominica, meaning "belongs to the lord." Dumbledore had permitted her to nurse the child for several months before separating them; she had believed her daughter would be placed in the care of her sister, Narcissa. However, the old man had his own plans for the rearing of Bellatrix's offspring—

As old wizard carried the infant out of her cell, Dumbledore shared his plans for the child with Bellatrix, of how her child would never know of her pureblood heritage, but was to be placed with muggle scum. He swore the child would never knew who or what she came from—and that her daughter would have her magic bound and live her entire life as a muggle. After taking the child, Dumbledore did not return for nearly six months forcing Bellatrix to live with the pain of the separation from her child and the shame of knowing that she had failed her lord all paired with her disgust and anger that her child was being raised by muggle filth. When he did finally return, he began to modify her memories using dangerous old magic.

This was one of Dumbledore's cruelest actions. He wanted Bellatrix to suffer. So instead of removing the memories all together, he chose to bury them. This way the loneliness and anguish of separation from her child would never fade; Bellatrix was a mother now and her body would always have the ache of the separation from her child. Burying the memory of the past year and a half deep into her subconscious was difficult and caused considerable pain to the woman. Slowly more and more memories were swept away and she fought less and less to hold on to the few that remained, knowing that trying to only caused her more pain in the end.

Yet now, her daughter stood before her—grown and so beautiful. She looked as fierce as her mother ever had and was quite dangerous wielding the two wands. Taking in her defensive stance, Bellatrix recognized her wand in the girl's hand. The other resembled Draco's. A clear soprano floated through the air, as the girl felt her mother's eyes on the wands. "I do believe I have something that belongs to you, Mrs. Lestrange—and Draco, as well. I would be happy to return these to you both, if you could be as so kind as to do the same. While my appearance has changed, I am confident my wand will still recognize me as its rightful owner." Neither of the Black sisters seemed to connect the fact Harry Potter and Hermione Granger had taken the wands during their escape and this girl in front of them was now in possession of the wands.

"Perhaps it would be best for me to explain what has happened and why I am here," though I was honestly not sure why I was there, it had just been my instinct. I was in trouble and I went to the only place I thought I might be welcomed. Narcissa nodded and gestured towards a sofa and chairs near the fireplace. The other raven haired women never took her eyes off me as we tentatively made the way to our respective seats, each wary of the other. The silence hung thick around us, suffocating me and only encouraging the fear that was beginning to overtake me. Sadly, these uncomfortable, dangerous situations were nothing new to any of us and playing her part as the gracious hostess, Narcissa made an offer of tea. "Cissy, I do believe we all could use something a bit stronger," Bellatrix replied, her voice was strong and severe.

Gathering three glasses and a bottle of firewhiskey, Narcissa silently filled the glasses and then refilled the glasses, as all the women quickly finished their first shot. With the help of liquid courage, I finally managed to begin to speak: "I am…or I perhaps I should say I was Hermione Granger. Until a few minutes ago, I believed I was a muggleborn with no ties to the wizarding community. However, when I used this wand, Bellatrix Lestrange's wand, to cast the cruciatus curse, it seems that I, inadvertently, broke a curse that had been placed on me, hiding my true heritage and appearance."

Commanding the attention of the room, Bellatrix rose. She had recovered from her pain and now seemed to tower over her sister and daughter. "You did more than you realize, my child. You undid much more than a few glamours. It seems that you destroyed all the magic Dumbledore had used to hide you—the memories he stole from me have been restored; and, I am certain you will now appear on the Black family tree. You now will have the opportunity to fulfill your destiny."

A million questions were running through my head as I sat listening to Bellatrix Lestrange confirm that she was in fact my mother. She explained all that she had known Dumbledore had done; it was just too much to try to digest. He was supposed to have been my protector—a trustworthy guardian, but all that he seemed to do was lie and manipulate…Me, Harry, Snape—Anyone and everyone he could! My mind kept wandering back to my old life. While I knew Harry would never trust me again, it still felt as if I was wronging him by being here.

"Cissy, retrieve the girl's wand so that I may have mine returned."

Fear threatened to overwhelm me again. Did she intend to torture me like before? I knew so much about the Order—Of course, they would want that information! Even though she had acknowledged me as her daughter, she was probably still disgusted by my muggle past. Narcissa had returned with my wand and noticed my wide eyes.

Placing a comforting hand on my shoulder, she smiled sincerely: "You need not fear us any longer, dear girl. You are family—and we protect our family, always. No harm will come to you within these walls." After a brief pause, she continued: "I understand the last visit to my home was not a pleasant one. And while, you may not feel comfortable here yet, you have nothing to fear. You are protected by blood magic now. I know you left here injured before, do you require any healing?" I managed to shake my head, as the blonde took the two wands I held from me and gave me my own. "Draco will be pleased to see his wand returned. He has been making use of mine, but I know it embarrasses him to have his mother's wand. Boys, you know—all ego." She said with a bit of a chuckle.

I feel like I have woken in some other dimension… What an odd predicament—this should be normal: sitting at my aunt's, listening to her joke about my cousin. But in reality, I'm in Malfoy Manor with Narcissa Black-Malfoy joking about Draco, the bane of my existence in school for the past six years. The entire experience was anything but normal.


	3. Identity Crisis

I do not own anything related to Harry Potter. All credit for all things HP belongs solely to JK Rowling. Arista is of my own creation, however. I hope you enjoy this story! I know there is a timeline issue due to Hermione/Arista being born while Bellatrix is in prison, but I really want to see where I can take this story—so please forgive my inaccuracy on the early timeline.

I am looking for a beta, if anyone has someone they would recommend. This story may go some dark places, but I will always warn about such content..

Thank you to everyone who followed, favorited, and reviewed this story. It truly encourages me knowing that you all are interested and enjoying this piece.

Know-it-all: I am really excited about writing Hermione in a bit of a non-traditional light—get her away from the trio, take away a characteristic that is known to define her (i.e. blood status), and play around with the character as the brilliant, strong woman I always hoped she could be. In response to the romance question—I won't say that there will be romance involved, but there is a relationship aspect. The story is rated M for a reason.

DarkShadow-Lord: There are two distinct versions of Hermione that will be present in this story. The present day version is meeting the reporter and is in her early thirties. The story she is sharing with him began in March of 1998; at that time, she was 18.

Chapter Three

Pausing the playback, he leafed through some of the research material he had gathered to prepare himself for his meeting with her. Newspaper articles from her years in school alleging romance with Harry Potter and accounts of her accompanying Victor Krum during the Triwizard Tournament contrasted dramatically with documentation of her actions during the last years of the war and her engagement and marriage announcements. Photos of her with the glamours active looked nothing like the woman he had lusted over that afternoon. It was almost as if one person had existed up until that March day on the beach and another had taken her place from that point forward. Certainly, there were similarities; both women were powerful, intelligent witches—but the bushy haired girl "muggleborn" had no place in a pureblood wizarding world.

He still could not believe she had agreed to meet with him, much less tell him her story. This woman was one of the most influential members of wizarding society— Even if you ignored who she was married to, as impossible as that might be, she was a tremendous success in her own right. And he was eager to see her again. Married or not, he could not help himself; he wanted the woman. He knew better, knew he should stay at arm's length, but he was helpless. If she would give him the opportunity, he would take advantage of it fully. Stifling a groan, he tried to focus in on his work again. Closing his eyes and pressing play, he hardened at her first sentence, remembering the suggestive wink she had given him as she spoke. How could something as simple as her voice affect him so?

"Would you like to take a break?" The simple sentence was followed by a long pause. Obviously she had been waiting on him to reply, but he had only managed to shake his head. He really had to work on that. If he could not speak, how in the world was he supposed to ever suppose to impress her? Drawing him out of his wallowing, her voice filled the room again, as she resumed her story:

Now looking back, the entire situation is laughable, but at the time I was terrified. My aunt was being classic Narcissa. It was Draco this and Draco that. She was being extremely chatty in an effort to ease my tensions. Going on and on about how delighted she was for me to be there and how lovely I was, but I could barely comprehend half of what she was saying.

For being the brightest of my age, I honestly felt like a complete idiot. I could not believe I had just handed a wand to a woman who had used it the day before to torture me in the very room I was seated in. I was terrified. I knew it was inevitable that I would be meeting the Dark Lord soon. It was not as if I had any way to leave or anywhere to go if I left. The woman I had come to accept was my mother was his greatest supporter and I was a wealth of information. With his legilimency skill, I knew I could not hide anything he wanted regardless of how well I had been doing with occlumency. Plus, it would be stupid to even try. I accepted that everything I knew of the Order, of Harry, and his search for the horcruxes would be common knowledge to every Death Eater by the next day.

It was over for Hermione. I had to accept things were different now. I had lost Harry. Even though, I had loved the boy more than anything and would have given my life for his. Now everything we had was gone. I had fled to the enemy's camp. Because of who I truly was, things with Harry and with Ron would never be the same. While the boys were lucky, they lacked the knowledge to successfully defeat the Dark Lord. They were young and foolish—hot tempered and inexperienced. Without me, I had to accept that they were easy targets. Sitting there watching my mother finish off the bottle of firewhiskey, I tried to figure out what part I was going to play in the rest of this war—

On top of all that, I was in the middle of a full blown identity crisis. From age eleven, I had set out to prove that muggleborn witches and wizards could be as good as, if not better, than purebloods—but now, I was proof that purebloods were more magically inclined. The only other students that had ever competed with me at Hogwarts were purebloods with an occasional surprisingly gifted halfblood. Now, I only served to prove that purebloods really were better. Narcissa's rambling on about her son only reinforced my traitorous thoughts—Purebloods really were better. Draco was a prime example—not only was he nearly as smart as me, he was extremely athletic. Not to mention, we both looked like we had fallen out of some ad in Witch Weekly.

Did you know most super models are purebloods? The same is true for every Victoria's Secret angel ever. Regardless, I was not dwelling on the fact that I was ten-times more attractive than I had ever been. I was too busy freaking out about where I was, who I was with, and what they were going to do to me.

"It's time." Bellatrix's voice easily overpowered the ramblings of her sister. I knew she meant to take me Lord Voldemort. Obviously shaking, I nodded and stood trying to keep hold of some of my old Gryffindor courage. As she vanished everything I was wearing, she ordered, "Narcissa, please provide her with an acceptable garment for presentation to our Lord."

Blushing at my nudity in front of the two women, I tried to cover myself, but both motioned for me to put my arms back to my sides as they studied me. My mother's gaze was as torturous as her cruciatus had been the day before. With a few swishes of her son's wand, Narcissa had me in and out of a number of different undergarment sets before choosing a black and silver lacey number with a garter and stockings. I had never worn anything like that before in my life. Sure, I had a few cute things, but nothing daring or sexy.

Bellatrix quickly tired of Narcissa's trial and error approach to choosing what I would wear and chose to take her own approach dressing me. The outfit reminded me of something she would wear. The black corset style top left little to the imagination, pushing my chest up on display. My shoulders and arms were left bare; and, the skirt was much, much shorter than I was comfortable with. I was fairly certain I resembled a very expensive prostitute. But as soon as I saw the shoes, I could have cared less of what else I had on or where I was going. I had never been a particularly girly girl, but shoes have always been my weakness—and that particular pair was beautiful. I could tell they were Christian Louboutin's immediately: black leather booties belted with leather and chains with the red sole, terrifyingly high stiletto heels, and edgy metal embellishments. I would have never worn anything like that before as Hermione, but as Arista, it was almost as if I was entitled to it. In that moment, I began to really let go of my past and started to embrace my future.

After a nod of approval from both women, we were off to see the wizard.


	4. Off to see the Wizard

I do not own anything related to Harry Potter. All credit for all things HP belongs solely to JK Rowling. Arista is of my own creation, however. I hope you enjoy this story! I know there is a timeline issue due to Hermione/Arista being born while Bellatrix is in prison, but I really want to see where I can take this story—so please forgive my inaccuracy on the early timeline.

I am looking for a beta, if anyone has someone they would recommend. This story may go some dark places, but I will always warn about such content..

Thank you to everyone who followed, favorite-d, and reviewed this story. It truly encourages me knowing that you all are interested and enjoying this piece.

Chapter Four

Waiting for my audience with the Dark Lord was one of the worst experiences of my existence. I was so nervous. I hate having my mind invaded—it is so painful; I honestly believe it is the worst type of abuse possible—like someone is raping your soul. Having someone inside my mind seeing my memories made me feel much more exposed than even I had felt earlier when the Black sisters were scrutinizing my naked body.

I was pleased Bellatrix had opted for side-long apparition instead of floo-ing. I detest the floo system. Exiting a fireplace gracefully was not something I ever mastered. I was more of the tumble out, covered in soot type. So the only thing I had going for me was that I was clean and well dressed. Silly as that may be, it did help me feel some better about the situation. I always feel more confident about myself when I am well dressed and groomed. Secretly, I had to hope that looking better might decrease the chances the Dark Lord would kill me. He was a man, after all—though I had never heard of him having any type of physical relationship, not even with Bellatrix.

Appearance was never a concern for me in my youth. Admittedly, I was not nearly as attractive then, but that was Hermione Granger. As Arista Lestrange, I was different. I had the potential to actually be someone that would get noticed. I still had all the brains of a bookworm, but finally had a body that would garner some attention. I will admit looking like I belonged in pureblooded society was important to me. It was like if I looked like I belonged and acted like I belonged, then maybe I actually would.

Up to that point, I had never truly belonged anywhere. As a child, I was never comfortable in my skin; I was a witch living with muggles. At Hogwarts, my life did not really improve. I was constantly ridiculed for my alleged blood status. Plus as the brains of the Golden Trio, I was essentially used for homework and researching anything and everything Harry needed to know for whatever task he was facing at the time. Yet, it felt nice to be a part of something. I ignored the fact they used me, because in my own way, I was using them too. I needed someone to be close to and be able to relate to.

Bellatrix left me with Narcissa to go before the Dark Lord. Presumably to inform him of my existence, I honestly have no clue what my mother discussed with him that day—I do know she was in no hurry. It felt like an eternity of waiting there outside his chambers. We stood in front of those huge mahogany doors and just waited. The silence was stifling. Since our arrival at the Dark Lord's residence, Narcissa had not spoken a word. I followed her lead, assuming correctly, a pureblood woman is to be seen—and her visual appearance appreciated—but not heard. I kept running possible scenarios over in my head of how my introduction would go. Far too many of them seemed to end in torture and death. Then again, I really knew nothing of Voldemort, except from legends and snippets of Harry's dreams.

I was so afraid. I could not hold it back any longer; silent tears began to flow down my cheeks. Narcissa reached over and took my hand, squeezing it gently. Despite everything, it seemed like a perfectly natural thing for her to do. She smiled at me and whispered, "Just breathe." And standing there holding my aunt's hand, I felt safer. The remainder of our wait was spent focusing every thought on taking deep breaths, just trying to relax and keep it together.

The doors to his chambers finally opened and my mother ushered me in. Narcissa squeezed my hand once more and told me it was time. With one glance back at my aunt, I stepped forward—the calm smile on my face could not hide the fear in my eyes. Bellatrix closed the doors behind her leaving me there alone with him. I could hear Nagini hissing, but did not see the huge snake in the dimly room. Then again, I could not see most of the room. I was barely inside at all, my back only inches from the door. I summoned all the courage I had left and took several steps forward, surveying the room. It was overwhelming—gigantic and beautifully decorated. Everything in the entire room screamed wealth.

The Dark Lord had his back to me. He was across the room standing in front of the fireplace. To say he looked regal is a tremendous understatement. Flames outlined his silhouette. He was taller than I had expected with broad shoulders. I had seen photographs of him as a teen at Hogwarts; in his youth, he had been quite handsome with dark hair. His hair was much shorter now and his skin was not as pale as I had expected. When he turned to face me, I could not believe that the man in front of me was Lord Voldemort.

I let out a breath I had not even realized I was holding. He looked nothing like a monster. Quite the contrary actually, he was gorgeous. I know my mouth had to fall open a little bit; I was gawking. He smirked at my reaction. That was probably the best reaction he could have had. It reminded me entirely too much of Draco, which immediately drew me out of my daze.

"Come to me." His voice was a deep baritone; his words radiated over my skin bringing a blush to my cheeks. The next moment, I was there in front of him, uncomfortably close. Mere inches separated us. I do not recall ever crossing the room, perhaps he summoned me. At the time, I was too caught up in his presence to worry about it. He was so bloody attractive and that voice. Oh dear Merlin, it was deep and smooth and sexy and damn. I was in so far over my head. Power radiated off of him; it was incredible. I understood immediately how so many could follow him so blindly; I was ready to give him anything and he had not even really spoken to me yet.

"Your mother was right. You are quite a lovely creature. Do you know your true name?" Without waiting for my response, he continued: "Arista Dominica Lestrange. It means excellence belongs to the Lord. You belong to me." I already knew my name and knew what it meant, but had not considered the implications of the name until that moment. Looking up into his eyes, I managed a tiny nod before he entered my thoughts. I opened my mind completely giving no resistance; I had long accepted there was no point in even attempting to hide anything from him. As he raced through my memories, I could not believe how painless the entire process was; he had skill much greater than any legilimens I had ever encountered. Dumbledore, Snape, and obviously Harry were nothing in comparison.

I pushed forward the memories I knew he would want to see most—my last interaction with Harry at the Shell Cottage, number 12 Grimmauld Place, the horcrux search. Watching his face, I tried to gage his reaction to each new memory. He showed little to no emotion the entire time, only exhibiting the faintest hint of anger in his eyes at the destruction of his horcruxes.

Looking back, I realize I was not afraid. I felt this eerie sort of calm feeling—an acceptance of my fate, perhaps. Standing there with the Dark Lord rummaging through my mind, I accepted that I was going to die and everything I had worked to protect up to that point would be destroyed. "You are not going to die, but you are otherwise correct. Harry Potter and his precious Order will be defeated—you are the key to that. You are mine and I intend to keep you with me from this point forward."

Staring down at the floor, I could not believe it. I would be staying with him from this point forward. Those words kept echoing through my mind. I was not going to die, or he said I wasn't going to. Was he lying? He was known to the evilest wizard in history; lying obviously would come natural to him. Would he torture me? I had given him everything I knew, but that did not mean he would not torture me. He did not need to, but would most likely want to, because he enjoys it. Anxiety was beginning to creep back over me. Chancing a glance back up at him, my eyes flickered from his lips to his eyes. I could not help but notice that he seemed to be smiling. I fought the urge to reach out and touch him. He seemed like a dream of sorts—or maybe a nightmare. Either way, he confused and frightened me.

"Arista, you have such potential and I will teach you. Together we will achieve great things. But first, you must understand that I am all those things you believe me to be. However, you should not fear me. As you are mine, I am your Lord." He did not have to ask if I would follow him, he already knew I was accepting of my fate. He had seen my hunger for knowledge. He replayed the memory of me on torturing the crab several times; he knew I enjoyed the power. I wanted more—more understanding, more control, more everything.

"Extend your arm." Pain was all I could register as his wand touched my skin. A skull formed out of the blackness pouring into my skin and a snake began to slither out of its mouth. The finished product contrasted vividly against my pale forearm.


	5. Waiting

I do not own anything related to Harry Potter. All credit for all things HP belongs solely to JK Rowling. Arista is of my own creation, however. I hope you enjoy this story! I know there is a timeline issue due to Hermione/Arista being born while Bellatrix is in prison, but I really want to see where I can take this story—so please forgive my inaccuracy on the early timeline.

I am looking for a beta, if anyone has someone they would recommend. This story may go some dark places, but I will always warn about such content..

Thank you to everyone who followed, favorite-d, and reviewed this story. It truly encourages me knowing that you all are interested and enjoying this piece. I know this is short, but I wanted to show Hermione mourn for her losses and Arista move forward with some hope.

Chapter Five

He had invaded my mind and I had willingly opened it to him. I had given him free reign within my brain, which was worth more to me than any physical body could ever be. Giving him my body to mark as his was easy after what I had just done. The mark denoted a level of trust of me in him and more significantly of him in me. I do not know if it was my willingness to open my mind to him, perhaps what he saw there or my heritage or something else that caused him to find me worthy, but he did. I did not realize it fully at the time, but the Dark Lord had honored me greatly. To be given a dark mark was significant. It seems to be a popular belief that most followers are marked, but quite the opposite is true. Less than a hundred of all the Dark Lord's followers have actually been marked Death Eaters. The most trusted and talented followers receive that honor.

After marking me, he left me there to go make use of the information I had give. Within the hour, there were people everywhere preparing for an attack on the Order. Just as I had known every ward and protection, now they all knew. A number of followers came by to try and catch a glimpse of who had defected against the Order. Even more appeared, when the news got out that Bellatrix had a daughter. I was silent, too consumed with my own thoughts to be concerned with them. Narcissa explained my transformation to some, including her husband and son. She made Draco promise to return with news as soon as he could. She knew I would want to know. That night and the next day, she stayed with me. She treated me family and to this day, I love her for all she did.

While we waited for news, I wallowed in my misery. Reminiscing about how things had been—everyone gathered in the kitchen at the Burrow: the feeling of a hug from Molly, the twins laughing and joking, Ron shoveling food into his mouth, Ginny sneaking off to flirt with Harry. We had been in danger, but in a home like that, feeling safe came natural. I wondered if I would ever feel safe again.

I spent hours vomiting and crying. Narcissa held me as I sobbed, humming to me as she stroked my hair. I was consumed by guilt. How could I not be? I had no idea who would be killed or even what would be targeted. I had given up everyone—Harry, the Weasleys, Tonks, Remus. All the people that had taken me in and loved me—and I gave them up just like that. No torture, no threats, nothing—just put me in the same room with the Dark Lord and I am nothing more than putty in his hands.

By the time Draco returned, I had gone numb. It was just before dawn and I was sitting staring into the fire. Narcissa had fallen asleep on the chaise lounge. I will never forget the site of him leaning against the chamber door as he tried to push it open. His robes were tattered. Blood and dirt were caked to his skin and in his hair. It was the first time I had seen the boy without perfect hair and a smirk. His face twisted into a grimace as he tried to step towards me. He was clearly injured. I rushed to him, calling to Narcissa to wake up.

A quick assessment allowed me to determine his injuries were minor, albeit painful. Narcissa stood back, content to just watch me work. She trusted me with her son. She had meant all she said—this proved her acceptance of me into her family was legitimate. Digging through my ever-present beaded bag, I was able to locate all the potions I needed. He had not been hit by any dark magic curses—just had a few broken bones and minor cuts and bruises. The boy looked as if he had been run over by a car. I was surprised when he accepted my help without even the slightest remark; he knew who I was, or who I had been and with the history we had, I anticipated he would object to my help. He didn't. He let me poke and prod him until I was satisfied I had a full understanding of his injuries. Even went so far as to thank me for my help after taking the potions I gave to him.

Relaxing where his mother had just been sleeping, Draco kept his attention on me. He made no attempt to hide it as he surveyed my appearance. His gaze taking in my bare skin and Bellatrix slut style outfit. I could not help but notice his eyes lingering on my left arm. He never said anything about it, just started sharing details of what had happened that night. Seems a change in appearance and blood status along with matching tattoos was enough to cause Draco Malfoy to accept me. We never talked about our past and still have our little spats, but there is trust there. He needed me and I was there for him. He knew I would always be someone he could count on; and, after my night with his mother, I believed I could count on both of them, just as much.

Grimmauld Place, the Burrow and Shell Cottage had been raided and were occupied by Death Eaters. So many died; it was a terrible day for the Wizarding World— The Order was practically decimated. They were not prepared for such a decisive attack and were considerably outnumbered. My parents were responsible for the deaths of Augusta Longbottom, Molly and Arthur Weasley, Remus Lupin, and Kingsley Shacklebolt to name a few. Voldemort lost a few followers, most significantly my father and uncle.

Draco informed us that my mother was already in the process of moving into Grimmauld Place. When he had returned to them, she had opted to remain behind with the group securing the residence. Last he saw of my mother, she had been ordering house elves from the Manor to relocate her belongs. When Narcissa and I visited number 12 later that day, Bellatrix seemed completely unfazed by Rodolphus and Rabastan's deaths—In fact, she seemed happy, citing how good it was to be back in a Black family home and out from under her sister's roof and watchful eye. My mother resents Narcissa's involvement in her family's lives—one of the few things Bellatrix and Lucius see eye to eye on. I appreciate my aunt and her involvement. She made the transition into my new life much easier. Leaving Harry and the Order did not equate to me leaving love or family behind.


	6. What a Shame

I do not own anything related to Harry Potter. All credit for all things HP belongs solely to JK Rowling. Arista is of my own creation, however. I hope you enjoy this story! I know there is a timeline issue due to Hermione/Arista being born while Bellatrix is in prison, but I really want to see where I can take this story—so please forgive my inaccuracy on the early timeline.

I am looking for a beta, if anyone has someone they would recommend. This story may go some dark places, but I will always warn about such content..

Thank you to everyone who followed, favorite-d, and reviewed this story. It truly encourages me knowing that you all are interested and enjoying this piece.

Chapter Six

She had sent him home after briefly discussing what happened that night promising to send an owl to schedule their next meeting. Sadness had shown in her eyes as she told him of all the death. She buried the pain with alcohol and potions, but her face gave so much insight into the woman. Her emotions reflected in her eyes. Her regrets, her sadness—all buried down within for so many years. He reminisced about the glimpses of happiness she had shown. A glimmer of a smile as she said spoke of her aunt and cousin. He could not forget the dreamy cadence of her voice when she spoke of how she was drawn in by the Dark Lord. He was jealous, no doubting that.

Taking another sip of his scotch, he stared blankly out of the picture window. Rain pelted down on the window panes blurring his view of the countryside. He wished to be back in the city—back with her. He would be satisfied to just be in her presence again, to hear that velvety voice, to see her eyes light up with a smile. Their next interview could not come fast enough. It had been nearly a week since he had seen her; he had hoped to receive an owl by now. With a sigh, he emptied the last of the dark liquid into his mouth, enjoying the burn in his throat and stomach.

Sitting down his glass to pick up his guitar, he strummed his fingers down over the strings. The note rang clear and true. With a flick of his wand, a silencing charm covered the room and the drum set in the corner began marking time. He strummed the introduction and began to sing. Powerful vocals took over filling the room with his rich, expressive voice:

_Two packs of cigarettes a day—_

_The strongest whiskey Kentucky can make._

_That's a recipe to put a vagabond_

_On his hands and knees…_

The song emphasized his skillful vocal range as he begged: "_What a shame, what a shame, to judge a life that you can't change." _The hauntingly beautiful song reminded him of her. The way she drowned her regrets—living life that way would only lead to an early death. It's tragic words rang true:

_There's a hard life for every silver spoon_

_There's a touch of grey for every shade of blue_

_That's the way that I see life_

_If there was nothing wrong,_

_Then there'd be nothing_ _right._

At some point in every person's life whether born with a silver spoon or blue collar, there were struggles and pain. This realization helped him not judge her for what she had done—how she had disowned her friends for a family that had tortured and abused her as a child, albeit without realizing who she was. Arista Lestrange had lost many in her life and she could use his help now without him passing any judgment against her.

He knew she had regrets. A single tear had rolled down her face as she spoke of how things had been at the Burrow. A little sob escaped her lips when he asked about her feelings towards Molly Weasley. Sincere worry had been reflected in her eyes as she spoke of Draco returning injured. She had developed connections to so many that pulled her in a million different directions. He would not do that; he would listen to her and share her story.

_They never knew how much a broken heart can break the sound and change the season_

_Now the leaves are falling faster, happily ever after—_

_You gave me hope through your endeavors_

_And now you will live forever…_

She did give him hope—her surviving everything she had was remarkable. Her willingness to share her experiences was even more remarkable. He would make sure everyone knew how extraordinary she really was. She would live forever in his words.

_What a shame, what a shame,_

_To judge a life that you can't change_

_The choir sings, the church bells ring_

_So, won't you give this man his wings?_

_What a shame to have to beg you to_

_See we're not all the same_

_What a shame, what a shame_

_'Cause we're not all the same_

_What a shame, what a shame_

_'Cause we're not all the same_

It really was a shame that everyone believed all of Voldemort's followers were exactly the same. He could not wait to introduce the world to the real woman behind the mask. As the last notes of the song faded into silence, a peck on the window announced the arrival of a large majestic owl—the wings and body, a sooty black finely spotted with white. Its face was silver, heavily edge in black with very large, dark eyes. He had seen this owl once before when the object of his thoughts originally contacted him. Accepting the letter from the owl's extended leg, he offered a treat from the jar he kept on hand by the window for feathered couriers.

The owl had seated itself on the sill. It looked at him cocking its head to the side as if to ask if he intended to read the letter anytime soon as the bird was awaiting the reporters reply. Unrolling the parchment, he was taken in by the beauty of her script—flowing, elegant, perfectly neat, but with an edginess to it as if she pressed just a bit too hard. It was a perfect representation for the woman—at first glance, she looked just like a perfect pureblood trophy wife, but something more lurked just below the surface.

_**Jaxon-**_

_**I am writing to you to request an audience with you at. First allow me to offer my sincerest apologies for the amount of time since our last meeting. It was necessary for me to travel to France to attend to a bit of business. You are welcome to join me at my flat in London this evening; would 8pm be convenient for you? Please send your reply back with Oliver.**_

_**~Arista**_

Rushing to scribble a reply, he could not wait to see her again. She was an enigma and he would be the one to figure her out. Hastily, he attached the letter to the owl's leg earning him a nip on the finger for his carelessness. The clock over his mantle indicated it was almost 7, enough time for him to shower, gather his interview materials, and possibly pick up a bottle of wine before apparating to London.

After wasting most of the hour trying to figure out what to wear, he had settled on a casual outfit—He paired some tight fitting jeans with Chuck Taylors and layered a long sleeved grey flannel shirt with a black t-shirt emblazoned artistically with script reading "when all is dark and there's no light, lost in the deepest star of night, I see you"; the lyrics were the introduction from the Weird Sister's "This is the Night". He wondered if she would recognize the song— He hoped that he would eventually be able to sing those lyrics and mean them when they came to her. For now, he was too affected by the spell she wove:

_Your voice keeps haunting me._

_ I cannot eat or sleep._

_ I'm going crazy in this hazy fantasy-_

Apparating outside the door to her flat, he tried to bury his desires with several deep breathes before knocking lightly against the heavy door. Much to his surprise, it was her that opened the door instead of a servant or house elf. She looked amazing. Her hair was down in loose curls; her hourglass figure was perfectly accented by the charcoal off the shoulder sweater mini-dress she wore. She was eye to eye with him, despite being several inches shorter. The black heels she wore put her at the perfect height for him to kiss her. She smiled as she welcomed him and gestured for him to come in.

As she turned and led him into her flat, he took the opportunity to take her in fully from behind. The heels she wore enhanced the shape of her legs, which seemed to stretch on for forever. Her hips swayed seductively as she walked. His imagination ran wild as he watched her shapely, toned ass walking away from him. Her voice interrupted his lust: "Jaxon, I am so happy you could come." Mechanically, he nodded and extended the bottle of red wine he had in his hand. Suddenly, very concerned about his gift, he almost drew it back. He had been certain she would prefer red to white, but now doubt slipped into his mind—had he made the right choice? The wine had been the best available at his home, but certainly she had better. "Oh lovely, I adore a good Italian wine. This should be delightful: a 2003 Masi. Thank you, you did not have to do this! Join me for a glass?"

She seemed to like the gift, but his nervousness was not completely dispelled—a glass of wine would help that. Nodding, he followed her into the sitting room. Eyeing the chaise lounge where Arista had lain during their last meeting, he positioned himself on the sofa directly across from it. No reason he could not appreciate the view while listening to her story. He had his notes out and recorder ready when she returned glasses in hand with the bottle levitating behind her. Handing him a glass, she took a sip of the deep burgundy liquid. He managed to find his voice and inquired about her trip to France. He did not miss the vague nature of her reply; she would tell him all her secrets about the past, but kept her present business very guarded.

After an appropriate amount of small talk, he asked if she was ready to begin. With a nod, she reclined and stretched arching her back—giving him quite the view. Her dress slipped up her thighs, showing considerably more skin than was appropriate. Just as when she caught him lusting after her during their first meeting, a knowing smirk appeared on her alluring lips. It was so easy to get distracted by those lips and focus on them while she was speaking. Those lips had the loveliest way of forming words and the way she puckering them to the side while she thought, he could think of nothing but kissing them. He was very thankful to be recording their meeting, because he had not heard anything she had said in the last five minutes.

The song Jaxon sings is "What a Shame" by Shinedown.


	7. Not a Love Story

CONTAINS SMUT! You have been warned. If you do not wish to read such things, stop at the page break line after Arista tells part of her story.

I do not own anything related to Harry Potter. All credit for all things HP belongs solely to JK Rowling. Arista is of my own creation, however. I hope you enjoy this story! I know there is a timeline issue due to Hermione/Arista being born while Bellatrix is in prison, but I really want to see where I can take this story—so please forgive my inaccuracy on the early timeline.

Thank you to everyone who followed, favorite-d, and reviewed this story. It truly encourages me knowing that you all are interested and enjoying this piece.

Chapter Seven

Arista could feel the man's gaze on her body as she arched her back and reclined against the velvety piece of furniture. The movement caused her dress slipped up her thighs revealing just a bit too much skin, but she made no move to right it. She smirked at the reporter, slipping her tongue out and licking over her bottom lip. That would undoubtedly drive him crazy. She enjoyed seeing his reaction to her and she could not deny that he caused a reaction within her, as well. Jaxon was an attractive man, a bit young, but attractive none-the-less.

He looked good in his more casual attire—the t-shirt fit snugly over his chest and shoulders hinting to the defined muscles that lay beneath. Her effect on him paired with the tight jeans he had worn left little to the imagination. She was certainly not disappointed either—she looked forward to bedding the man. Her ugly duckling past caused her to appreciate the attention; it made her feel powerful to be able to affect someone in that way. He blushed slightly under her gaze, but did not look away. Puckering her lips a bit to the side, she drew her bottom lip into her mouth nibbling on it slightly as she thought about how to begin today. She knew he had started the recorder—and eventually she began to speak:

Reflecting on it now, I agree with the premise that the war was to protect and preserve the sanctity of the Wizarding World. Propaganda distorts reality and the media rarely exists to inform or educate the public. The Ministry and the Daily Prophet promoted certain ideas in an effort to secure their power, not for the good of the people. War is not pretty though—It is full of death and destruction, but those sacrifices are necessary to achieve peace in a world that you can proud to live in.

This war was about securing a world Wizards can be proud of and feel safe in. It was never a war of light versus darkness—or evil versus good. Dumbledore loved to spin the tale that way with his holy Order and righteous army. It is really absurd how distorted the perception of both sides was. Dumbledore was no more "good" than Voldemort. In fact, the two men have more common ground than differences. Both are great wizards skilled at manipulation—as charismatic as Hitler and just as dangerous. No one seeks out the Elder Wand without having greed in their heart. Both men were dark in their core—deteriorated selfish souls. The rest of us were just moths to their flames.

Do not misunderstand me—I would never say that the Dark Lord was anything short of evil. He was a bad man who did bad things, but I believe he did them to preserve our world. The night after I came to him, the attacks produced no prisoners. Anyone that opposed him either died or fled. Men—women—children… everyone that stood in his way—he destroyed. He killed mercilessly and tortured with a flair and vigor that surpassed even my mother's. It is important for you to realize that as I go forward with this story. I was quite taken in by him, but this is not a love story.

She paused there to pour them each another glass of wine emptying the bottle. A house elf appeared with another to replace it, taking the empty away. Jaxon was eye-fucking her shamelessly. The alcohol had seemed to lower his inhibitions considerably. She suspected he had already been drinking before he received her letter. This was bound to be an entertaining night. Taking another sip of the delicious liquid, she rose and crossed the room until she was standing directly in front of the man. He took in a sharp breath at her proximity. Kneeling down before him, her hands found their way towards his belt. She looked up at him with a suggestively smile as she continued, "No, this is no love story—but that does not mean there wasn't lust."

As if waiting for that cue, he pulled her up onto him. His lips crashing into hers at the word lust. His tongue grazed across her lips begging for access. Opening her mouth to him, their tongues battled for dominance as she ground her hips against him. He could not stifle a groan as she rubbed herself against his erection. His hands slid under her dress, grasping firmly onto her hips as he thrust against her. They both had entirely too many pieces of clothing on. She vanished his shirt off him wandlessly, running her hands over his sculpted chest and shoulders. "No magic," he scolded her. He looked even better than she had expected. A bold black tattoo covered most of his upper arm and shoulder. It was clearly magical—a dragon surrounded by smoke and ancient runes. Running her fingers over the runes, she could feel their power. A surge of lust washed over her as Jaxon kissed and bit down her neck over her collarbone.

Pushing her dress up and over her head, he turned his attention to her scantily covered breasts. Black lace barely covered them. Squeezing both lightly, he slid a thumb over her nipple—smiling as it hardened under his attention. Pushing the fabric away from her other breast, he lowered his mouth to her body, nibbling lightly before sucking that nipple into his mouth. An exquisite moan escaped her lips as his teeth grazed over her skin. Breaking his no magic rule, she whispered the spell against his skin as she traced over another rune with her tongue—leaving him completely nude. It was only right to rid him of all those horrible clothes. She was not in any rush, but wanted to be able to see and feel him properly. Pushing back from him slightly, she made eye contact as she wrapped her hand around his shaft for the first time. Beginning a steady rhythm, she slid up and down, grazing her thumb over his tip capturing each drop of lubricant and spreading it over the head. He took in the sight before him enjoying her touch. She wore only her heels and matching black lace undergarments. There was no denying that her mind had been on seduction when she had dressed that evening.

A pop drew them both back to reality. A house elf had appeared in the room. The small elf turned quickly away from them and spoke softly: "Tibly hates to disturb the Missus, but the Missus has another guest." A sound that could only be described as a growl erupted from the brunette's lips. "Send them away!" Arista ordered fiercely. "Tibly would never disobey the Missus, but the guest cannot be sent away. The Missus must come with Tibly now." As Jaxon set back watching the exchange, he noticed Arista's demeanour completely change immediately. In the blink of an eye, she was dressed and checking her reflection in the mirror. In a completely professional tone, she sent him home: "Jaxon, you may use the fireplace in here to return to your home. I will send an owl to you tomorrow to set up an appointment for us to continue our interview." With that, she turned on her heel and walked out of the room. Tibly hurried him towards the fireplace. "No time to linger, you must go now, sir. Tibly must get back to the Missus." The tiny elf piled his clothes into his arms and finally managed to push him into the fireplace. Disappearing into the green flames, Jaxon could not believe his luck or his misfortune.


End file.
